Bone Deep (A Doc Ford Novel), page 21
Shelly, sensitized after yesterday, took a step back, but the man was unconvinced. “You’re taking pictures of a goddamn snake?”
I touched a finger to my lips, then waved to summon them closer. “Big one on the bottom. You can see his head sticking out from a rock.”
Shelly said, “That’s just stupid,” and turned to go.
But the man noticed the branches I’d snapped as markers. “Snake, huh?”
I told him, “Look for yourself,” while I unclipped the dive bag from my belt and pretended it needed repositioning.
The bag was empty.
The man’s eyes moved from my dive bag to the branches, then to me. He didn’t believe my story. But finally said, “Mick wants to see you,” then followed Shelly upstream.
The analytical nerd in me counseled: If you don’t take the saber cat skull, that asshole will.
• • •
RIDING SHOTGUN IN THE RENTAL CAR, Duncan driving, I swiped through photos on my phone. A couple of okay shots, but none that did justice to a skull that was an evolutionary masterpiece.
Dunk had been talking about Mick, convinced that he was on our side now. Said our guide had spent the night at a motel because he was afraid of Quark, or Quirk, the gangbanger. Said Mick would move in with a buddy, if needed, and was no longer answering Quark’s calls. Privately, Mick had given me the biker’s cell number on a matchbook. Swore he would find out more about the mysterious collector because he was eager to dive the elephant pond. Then Duncan, after driving in silence for a while, surprised me, saying, “Hate to lay this on you, but I think Shelly’s a cop.”
I concentrated on my phone, asking, “Shelly?” Then switched from photos to recent messages.
“She shoots a hell of a lot of video. You notice? And she doesn’t come back with that many fossils. Just enough, seems to me, to convince the others she’s trying. But it’s more of an attitude thing.”
I said, “She avoids me, that’s all I know.”
The man from Montana gave me a look, then said, “I noticed.” And let me wonder about that before adding, “I was thinking of asking her out. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Your loyalty is appreciated,” I said wryly, then changed the subject. “I had a friend run the crazy biker’s license and I just heard back. The plate was stolen yesterday. More likely, the night before, but that’s when it was reported. I’d bet he’s using a fake name. Who the hell names a kid Quark?”
Fallsdown said, “I think that’s right. Or Quirk,” and took his eyes off traffic long enough to see I was reading text messages. He told me about some strange fake names he’d heard in prison, asked about Tomlinson, who was still in Sarasota, then said, “At this next spot, watch how she behaves,” back on Shelly again.
Mick and his group were caravanning north toward the Manatee River, a little creek east of Bradenton. We lagged far behind. There was a reason, but the man from Montana hadn’t asked why I’d insisted on being the last to leave the river. He’d probably assumed I had to make a toilet stop because I’d headed for the bushes when the others were gone. Or maybe he was holding the question in reserve for later.
I wasn’t concerned. It was a little after two, on this muggy afternoon, with clouds. Time enough to make another dive and be back at Dinkin’s Bay before sunset to compare notes with Tomlinson.
Duncan used his blinker to pass a line of eighteen-wheelers, then signaled again to return to the slow lane—a probationer mindful of driving courtesy. He said, “I like her eyes. And she’s funny—a sense of humor is important. The way she plays off my medicine man act, I don’t know, just the right touch, mostly kidding around but not. She knows I have fun with it, too. Like we’re enjoying a private conversation the whole time nobody else can hear.”
I asked, “Does she know you jumped parole?”
Duncan winced and said, “Geezus, you gotta bring that up again?” and used his blinker to pass a Winnebago. After thinking it through, he decided, “Yeah . . . maybe I shouldn’t ask her out. If she’s a cop, the odds are about fifty-fifty she’d put me in jail before I got her into bed.”
I said, “Don’t underestimate your charm. I’d make it seventy-thirty. Either way, she looks like the type who’d put you in handcuffs first.”
Dunk said, “Hmm . . . think so? Then I will ask her out.”
Shelly, I had to agree, used her camera a lot—but, at least, didn’t have a GoPro strapped to her head like the two divers who were already in the water when we arrived. Another group had beat us to the spot, Mick explained, but there was plenty of room. When Alfie, the Jet Ski operator, appeared, I understood. Alfie’s boss, Harris Sanford, wasn’t around, so he and Mick had apparently worked out some kind of deal.
I spent forty minutes in the water, which I figured was the minimum required not to attract suspicion. Because Duncan was busy charming Shelly, it was another half hour before we packed up and left.
The man from Montana thought I was behaving oddly and finally said something as we banged toward the highway. “Do you have a guilty conscience? Or just afraid I was enjoying myself too much?”
I didn’t have an excuse ready but came up with one fast. On the computer, I had mapped Florida Elephant Rescue—the two-hundred-acre facility Owen had told me about. A section abutted Mammoth Ridge property, which was only a few miles inland. I told him I was in a hurry because I wanted to have a look before it got late.
“They don’t allow visitors,” I said, then added, “But if there’s no gate, maybe we’ll see some elephants before they run us out.”
Duncan found that odd but remained neutral. “You’re a real curious guy, know that?”
“Curiosity is healthy,” I told him.
“Doc,” he said, “that’s not the way I meant it.”
• • •
TOMLINSON, AT THE COMPUTER, opened my photos of the saber cat skull, and said, “I wouldn’t put off warning Leland. After two days with Ava, I think he’s about to have his balls handed to him. Or worse—if I could think of something worse.”
I was using a siphon hose to vacuum a hundred-gallon tank, the tank cloudy with sand, while miniature stone crabs threatened me from their enclaves. I kinked the hose, then decided I needed to hear more before imposing on Leland, a man I barely knew. “I haven’t cashed his check, but he’s paying me for water analysis, not family counseling,” I said. “So far, I’ve heard the ugly part. Get to the dangerous part.”
The ugly part was Tomlinson, Ava, and the twins drinking mimosas by the pool after yoga class that morning. The over-thirty daughters in black two-piece swimsuits, Ava in a beige thong bikini; a relaxed group who’d already shared an hour of sweating to hip-hop yoga. Tricia, the one who Tomlinson said had a dark side, had become more animated when their instructor, Enrique, showed up uninvited.
“Ricky, they call him,” Tomlinson said. “I got the impression he knew Leland was gone, but he didn’t expect anyone but Ava. The house has a five-car garage. I’d ridden with the twins and they’d parked inside.”
That’s how it started. Tricia and Ava had something in common that only Ricky knew—along with a bunch of locker-room buddies between Orlando and Naples. Three drinks into the impromptu party, Ava had become suspicious of her stepdaughter’s behavior. Tricia responded with innuendos of her own. Ricky sat back and enjoyed himself while their catty exchange escalated into a yelling match. The argument got out of hand, and Ricky had fled when Ava snapped and exited the kitchen, screaming threats and carrying a knife. Tricia had stomped off, too, leaving Esther to shepherd Ava inside after asking Tomlinson to roll a joint . . . or did he have a few Xanax?
“If that’s not dangerous enough,” my pal said, “let me tell you about the stepson.”
“Owen,” I said. “Does Ava refer to him as ‘my stepson’?”
“Wait, I’m not done. Owen went through a twelve-step program—gambling. Alcoholics can be forgiven, but gambling debts don’t go away. Owen is a sports junkie. Did you know that?”
“I suspected,” I told him, “but I wouldn’t believe much of what Ava says.”
That was only part of what my pal thought was a dangerous mix. Tomlinson has his oddities, but he is perceptive and pays attention. He had gleaned enough from the twins, the odd dropped remark, and from family pictures inside the house, to suspect that Owen, Ava, and Harris Sanford were closer than anyone knew. Possibly had a secret agenda.
“The mysterious power player could be Harris,” Tomlinson said. “You said he was good-looking.”
“Athletic, blond,” I said. “But she already has that in the yoga instructor—doesn’t matter what color his hair is—a young guy tucked away. You know what I’m saying?”
“That’s why I’m wondering if it could be Harris’s uncle. I’d discounted the guy because of his age. Dalton Sanford. He’s the seventy-some-year-old attorney I mentioned. Dalton is partners in an Orlando law firm that has branch offices, including one in Venice. Esther and Tricia worked there during college. I don’t know if the firm represents Finn Tovar’s estate but wouldn’t be surprised. I think Leland’s so wrapped up in family problems, he doesn’t see the big picture.”
Tomlinson reflected for a moment. “Funny, huh? Just because Dalton Sanford’s over seventy doesn’t mean that he has outlived his tallywacker. Ava could have her sights set on an older, wealthier husband.”
“How do you know Dalton has money?”
“Men like Dalton always do,” Tomlinson replied.
I used my lab apron for a towel and hung it on a hook. “I’ll give Leland a heads-up, but not over the phone. I’ll call and see when he’s free.”
I did, left a message on Leland’s cell, then resumed cleaning the last of twelve tanks while Tomlinson rehashed the scene at the pool, then finally refocused on the saber cat photos.
It was my turn to talk about fossil diving and our attempt to get past the guard at Florida Elephant Rescue. “We could have hiked in from Leland’s property—there are logging trails—but maybe another time,” I said.
I was just finishing when Mack called to tell me a rental boat had come in with what might be a lionfish—a poisonous exotic that is reeking havoc in the Keys and might be working its way north.
“I have to ID a fish,” I told Tomlinson.
He waved me away, too engrossed in photos of the saber cat to respond.
• • •
THUNDERHEADS RUMBLED OVER THE MAINLAND, and Mack had locked the marina gate by the time I returned to the lab. Tomlinson was still at the computer, an empty Corona bottle on the floor, a fresh beer next to him. When I came through the door, he said in an accusing way, “You shouldn’t have done it, man. I’m surprised at you.”
“Life is full of little disappointments,” I replied. “What didn’t I do?”
“You left this beautiful tiger skull out there all alone, man. How do you know the bone hunter and what’s-her-name, Shelly, won’t go back tomorrow?”
I hadn’t denied taking the skull. I had only admitted moving it to a safer spot. He was making an assumption.
“They can look all they want,” I said. Then tilted my head and sniffed. “You smoked a joint in here, didn’t you?”
“Nope, on the porch. Flamingo must’a left the door open.”
I almost asked, Who? but caught myself. “Don’t blame the dog,” I said. “And stop calling him Flamingo. You know better than to smoke that damn stuff here.”
Tomlinson deflected that by concentrating on photos of the skull. “You’re a dog person, that’s what most people would guess. But secretly, you’re more cat, and cats know the truth about their own. This tiger found you, man, not vice versa.”
I told him, “You’re high,” and reached for my apron.
He sat back and touched a finger to the computer screen. “The way his fang curves just blows me away. A crescent moon, that’s what it reminds me of. But there’s blood on this particular moon. See the shape of the tooth, that color? Doc—you were supposed to rescue him.”
I had rescued the skull. But Tomlinson was in the pre-stoned talkative stage and I wasn’t going to discuss it. Fallsdown hadn’t pried, why should he?
“It’s not the Indian way,” I told him.
“Sarcasm, whoa, dude. I know there’s going to be trouble when you resort to sarcasm.”
I put the apron on, intending to finish my cleaning, but stopped near the sink. In a lone tank was the jar fragment I’d found in the pond. Beside it was a folder I’d made, Conquistadors/Florida printed on the tab. The folder was open. The papers inside were out of square.
Tomlinson had been snooping. Rude, but it was no big deal, so I straightened the papers, closed the folder, and went about my work.
Last night, I had called an archaeologist friend and e-mailed photos of the jar fragment. She had tentatively IDed it as the rim from an olive vase, stem broken. Probably Spanish, possibly 1600s but maybe 1500s. She needed to consult Gainesville or Madrid. Thus the folder and my interest in Conquistadors who had not only explored Florida’s Gulf Coast but had ventured inland—perhaps as far as the pond on Mammoth Mines property.
Tomlinson broke into my thoughts, asking, “Did you figure out which Spaniard belongs to that jar? I couldn’t help noticing your research.”
“I couldn’t help noticing you left the damn folder wide open,” I replied. “Why don’t you take a guess? If it is Spanish, and if it dates back to the fifteen hundreds, someone hiked forty miles inland carrying an olive jar.”
“I only skimmed through the data,” Tomlinson said, “but there are only four possibilities. I mean, only four Spanish captains are mentioned. Which, of course, totally ignores all the men and slaves who actually did the grunt work. Typical of the Anglo-centrist mind-set when it comes to writing history.”
I told him, “No more smoking dope in here, okay?”
He remained silent while I neatened the folder, primed the siphon, and resumed vacuuming.
Some of what my pal had said was true. History contained only the names of four Spanish explorers who had ventured into inland Florida during the fifteen hundreds. None of those men had fared well. Only two had survived to tell the tale.
I thought about it as I worked. Of those four, the most interesting—to me, anyway—wasn’t the famous Ponce de León or Hernando de Soto. It was a much lesser known Spaniard who, under the guise of exploration, had come to Florida on a personal mission. He came to search for his son and also some former crewmen, all of whom had disappeared in a shipwreck off the Florida coast.
Pedro Menéndez was the explorer’s name.
Because I have a son, Menéndez’s story was compelling. But there was another link that struck a nerve: Captain Menéndez had sailed to Florida carrying a letter of marque. The letter was a legal document that governments still have the power to issue—as I knew from experience. It granted Menéndez the right to “mete out judgment” to anyone he deemed a threat to his country or to his cause.
Any and all threats to your country or your mission was a phrase more familiar to me.
A letter of marque was a dangerous tool in the hands of an angry, driven man. Menéndez was both. As a young officer, had been tortured in a French prison, and he had described natives of the Bahamas as “the most wretched and godless savages on earth.”
By the time Pedro Menéndez’s ship arrived in Sanibel waters, the loving father, the loyal naval officer, had become a stone-cold killer.
The click and whirr of the printer interrupted my thoughts. When I looked, Tomlinson was using a magnifying glass to inspect a glossy of the saber cat skull. He went over it carefully before he spoke. “When you put your hands on this, what did you feel?”
“The skull?” I said. “It felt like bone.”
“Come on . . . You know what I’m asking.”
I played along. “Take your pick: I felt a charge of primal energy. Or voices of the first aliens who seeded Mother Earth with life. Bone,” I repeated, “that’s what it felt like. Heavier than expected because bone mineralizes over time. It’s what makes fossils. Water seeps into organic tissue. Minerals crystalize within the cells and the cells harden to create a sort of stone duplicate. I looked it up.”
When Tomlinson pressed about what I had felt when touching the skull, I shifted the siphon saddle, changed buckets, and carried several gallons of detritus outside, where I dumped it over the rail. Over the Gulf, fresh nimbus towers had gathered in a rumbling green mass.
Leland Albright returned my call as I was coming through the door. He sounded tired or slightly drunk. Possibly both, since it was after seven, cocktail hour, on this Wednesday evening, but no hint he was upset by today’s ugly scene at the pool. He asked about water samples I’d taken from Mammoth Ridge. I told him I needed more extensive samples from differing depths. He accepted that, asking, “Can we meet tomorrow?”
I was diving with Mick’s clients in the afternoon, and Leland was busy anyway. We settled on later—six-thirty at the Albright ranch.
“I’ll bring my sampling kit,” I told him.
I didn’t risk adding And my dive gear.
TWENTY-TWO
That night, an oceanic storm anchored itself over Sanibel and knocked out the power, which gave the psycho gangbanger time and privacy while he cut the chain at the marina gate and snuck onto the property.
The man had no idea how lucky—or unlucky—he was. At Dinkin’s Bay, Fridays and Sundays are party nights, but Wednesdays also are an excuse for a midweek gathering. The schedule doesn’t vary much. Chinese lanterns and music come on at first dark, and the socializing doesn’t stop until the last beer is gone.
If not for the storm, the biker—Quark, according to Mick—might have been cajoled into joining the party . . . or he would have gotten bored waiting for drunks to leave and probably ridden his Harley home.
But there was a storm. One of those Gulf Stream flotillas that seek the heat of land for renewal. I felt the first rumbling at dusk and switched on the VHF radio to hear warnings to any boater foolish enough to venture offshore.
